Twirl for Me, Fly for Me
by Serenity9419
Summary: "He was too hard to read. Too damn noble, she often thought. But she cared for him, or she wouldn't have bothered to try." Though sometimes unseen, Cinna and Portia took their own journey together - they risked, they loved, and they lost.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Right. So, I absolutely loved Cinna in the books, and I think Portia deserves to be fleshed out a bit more (speaking of which, I couldn't remember any appearance description of her in the series, so I improvised). I try not to change the plot of any fanfiction I'm doing of a story, but I'll find every loophole possible :P

**Disclaimer: **If I created the wonderful work know as The Hunger Games, I'd never again doubt my story skills. Unfortunatly I didn't, so I do. If that makes sense. ...I don't own the story or the characters. There.

Oh yes, this contains Catching Fire spoilers, and some Mockingjay ones _much_ later on

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Twirl for me, girl on fire._

Katniss Everdeen is the icon of freedom. They say she struck the match that ignited Panem into an inferno of rebellion, blazing the way to a better future.

But that's not true. At least, I don't believe it. Because back before I was Peeta Mellark's stylist, before I realized what the 74th Hunger Games would come to mean, before I knew that I would soon risk my life opposing the very city in which I was born and bred, I met Cinna.

We were never acquainted before Reaping Day. Yet within his gaze, I recognized the spark that would soon envelop the entire country.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

"Cinna."

There was no response other than the shuffle of paper, the scratch of a pencil.

"Cinna." This time louder, sharper. The attempt proved futile.

Portia finally reached forward, stilling the man's skittering hand. "Cinna, look at me." The young stylist raised his head with a sigh of defeat. His expression, she noted, remained as controlled as ever.

"_I channel my emotions into my work. That way, I don't hurt anyone but myself. Promise."_

He had told her that in good-natured humor when they first met, yet it had proven time and time again to be true – something that frustrated his partner to a great extent. He was too hard to read, which made it almost impossible to try easing his worries. _Too damn noble,_ she often thought. But she cared for him. Otherwise, she wouldn't have even bothered to try.

_Except his eyes_, she amended, staring at the flecks of gold amid emerald green. His eyes could never quite cover emotion – they were her window to his soul. And now, even through exhaustion, they smoldered up at her.

Twice. That was how many times she had seen his careful façade slip. The first was during the early days of the 74th Games, when the Gamemakers unleashed the devastating forest fire on Katniss. She knew instantly what it meant, and so did he – they were jeering at the "girl on fire." His expression broke, lanced with pain. Despite her part, he was taking all the blame for the unintentional harm their design had initiated.

The second was just yesterday, during the 3rd Quarter Quell ruling. They were sitting side by side – she felt his body pull taut at President's Snow announcement and heard his uttered swear. Katniss was going back in the arena, they knew, and most likely accompanied by Peeta. Cinna's face had been hard to read, but there was definite sorrow for the young girl he had grown so fond of.

Now Portia eased the sketchbook out from under his arm. "We still have a while yet. You won't do any good if you're too tired to keep your eyes open."

He protested, standing quickly. Just a few inches taller than Portia, the height itself wasn't intimidating. But the sudden closeness startled her, and she diverted her attention to the drawings. They were incredible, of course, because they came from Cinna. One jet black suit caught her eye, and with it sudden inspiration.

"I have an idea." She tapped the paper, looking up at her partner's curious gaze. "For tomorrow." Cinna groaned and picked the book lightly from her grasp, folding it under one arm. He smiled then, brushing a strand of auburn hair away from her face. It was her natural color, but streaked with subtle tawny gold. "If I have to rest, so do you."

The stylist's sharp intake of breath was covered by a smart rap against the door and a messenger abruptly shoving open the heavy frame. Portia clumsily stumbled away from her partner, the opposite to Cinna's smooth side-step.

"Directly from the President, for the stylist of Katniss Everdeen." He dropped the letter into Cinna's outstretched hand and left as swiftly as he appeared.

Puzzled, the young man tore open the envelope, eyes darting over the scrawling red script. Portia saw the anger there first, in his gaze. The note crumpled a second later and dropped from his fist.

"Katniss is to wear the winning wedding dress to her opening interview for the 75th Hunger Games." He spoke curtly, followed by a Portia's uttered gasp. He proceeded to whip around and disappear into his room. The door slammed in his wake.

Three times, then.

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**A/N:** I've read this piece so many times over the last 2 days (damn account waiting period), so I honestly have no complete sense of whether it's good or not. I know you must hear this constantly, but reviews are much appreciated :D  
Chapter 2 will be up soon~


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Here we go. Not much to say, except I'm immensely grateful for the reviews & such ;D  
This chapter somewhat sets up the next one, which has a bit of fluff~

**Disclaimer:** Forgot about it for a minute, but I think we all know I'm not Suzanne Collins

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Portia raised her head, aware of Cinna's sudden presence in the early morning sun. It streamed through the wide bay window of the stylists' assigned flat, picking out the accents of his light gold eyeliner.

His short-cropped brown hair was tousled from sleep, though he was already dressed for the day in signature black. He offered her a tight smile and swept out a chair across from his partner.

"I apologize for my behavior last night. I realize what an honor it is." Portia glared at him and shoved over a plate of hash browns and slices of the odd purple melon that was native to the Capitol. "Shut up, Cinna. I know the message Snow is sending, and I know why it upset you. You don't have to keep up any pretenses with me." She said tiredly.

Cinna hesitated, and then reached across the table to take her hand in a gesture that had become familiar in the past year. It still never failed to send a jolt through her, as if his skin was electric to the touch. "I know." He fixed her with his penetrating gaze, a slight frown creasing his features, as if she presented an enigma he couldn't figure out.

Portia withdrew her hand and dropped her eyes shyly, stirring the remaining lumps of sugar in her tea. She could've sworn a low chuckle came from him as he settled back into the chair. "About this idea of yours…" he prompted, one eyebrow quirked in a feat Portia could never pull off.

"Right. Meet me on the balcony later tonight, around seven." Cinna's interest was evidently perked. "If you need the dark, we could always use the lighting room." He pointed out, but Portia shook her head. "Rather have it authentic." She laughed at what could only be described as a pout on her partner's face.

"Don't be late." She teased, picking up her empty plate and retreating to the kitchen.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

The whir of the automated glass door alerted her to his arrival. Even as his weight settled onto the cushion beside her, she didn't raise her gaze from the flickering flame to acknowledge the man's presence.

"Fire." His voice spoke quietly in her ear, a question to his tone. "Again?" Portia shook her head and beckoned for his sketchbook again. She flipped to the black suit once more, leaning in close to him. "They created a blaze at the last opening ceremonies, when they were trying to catch notice. But now they don't need favor; Lord knows they have enough as is." The young stylist caught Cinna's eye.

"Something darker this year. Something that shows their indifference, maybe even an unforgiving attitude toward the Capitol. But something powerful, so they can't be ignored." She explained, gesturing toward his design and then the fire.

"Embers. Shifting hues of flame against black." Her partner realized. "Dark and dramatic. Brilliant." His smile flashed in the gathering night. Portia grinned and returned a high-five. "I guess we'll be out here a while, then."

Cinna loped an arm around her shoulders and they turned their attention toward the bonfire. It was always changing, sputtering out in the brisk wind and flaring to life once more in endless patterns. Cinders were spat from the main body, licking at the gloom before they were swiftly snuffed out.

The noise from the city was muted so high up, but the elevation also created free passage for the chill breeze. Portia had long ago curled against Cinna's side, resting her head against his shoulder, when the trembling began. It started numbly in the back of her mind and slowly traveled throughout her body, wracking her limbs in uncontrollable shivers. She jerked away from her partner, clutching his notebook to her chest.

Cinna sat up in alarm, reaching for her in his bewilderment. It was cold, yes, but the fire gave off sufficient warmth. "Portia, honey, what's wrong?" he touched her arm gently and she shied away, the fear and pain unmistakable in her eyes.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she finally spit out, shoving the sketchbook at him. It was open to the last page where he had started his most recent designs – one side displaying the pearl-laden wedding dress, the other titled "After Burnout." Below was a depiction of the Mockingjay dress.

The fear in Portia's eyes was for Cinna.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Chapter 3 for youu. It's quite a bit longer and has some fluff

Again, thanks so much for the reviews - Special thanks to _**SkyWriter9**_ for including this story in your community!

To _**Turq8,**_ totally agree, I never believed that either. If people base it on him wearing eyeliner, they should remember the other Capitol men; Cinna's probably wears the least. If it's the whole designer thing...well, that's just stereotypical ;P

**Disclaimer:** If I were Collins, Cinna would live eternally

Hope you enjoy~

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"Portia, wait. Portia!" Cinna rose a second too late to intercept her, dropping his sketchbook onto the stone floor. He managed to slip into the apartment before the slider whisked closed, only to have Portia's bedroom door shut him out.

The young woman collapsed on her bed, tears stinging her eyes. She wiped them away furiously and her hand came away moist. She pressed her lips shut on quiet sobs, shocked by her uncontrollable reaction. "Go away, Cinna." She choked out, burrowing into her covers.

She sensed more than heard him lean against the door, picturing his forehead pressed against the styled wood. "Let me explain, please." He murmured wearily.

Portia shut her eyes as if it could block out his voice. She didn't want to hear it. She felt an unreasonable sense of betrayal, but not because of the obvious implications Cinna's design had toward the Capitol – rather, because he was going to risk his neck and let her watch clueless from the sidelines.

"_That way, I don't hurt anyone but myself. Promise._" His words came back to taunt her and she realized she should've seen this coming. It was all too like him, that damn selfless side that had always kept her at a distance when it mattered most.

And now, fear for him threatened to swallow her whole, tugging her into a pit of despair. Cinna was about to pull the perfect move. President Snow was ruthless, but he would be unable to fault anyone but Katniss's own stylist.

She had never truly realized the extent of her feelings until that moment, when the tears finally spilled over and poured down her cheeks.

She couldn't figure out how Cinna managed to override the locked signal, but he was suddenly by her side, scooping her into his arms and cradling her against his chest. She clutched his shirt and inhaled his scent as if it was something she had been starved of. Her partner slid into the bed, whispers of comfort falling on her ears as he tried to soothe the young woman.

Portia realized her breath was coming in short intakes as she tried to control the outpour of emotion. Cinna pressed lightly against her, placing feather-light touches of his lips against her forehead, cheek, and nose. She sensed his alarm and tried to quell it, but was unable to form more than a whimper. She simply clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck.

Accidently or otherwise, his lips skimmed across hers. There was a brief lapse, dark blue eyes flying open to meet his gentle green. There was infinite concern there, mixed with caring and…love?

He lowered his head, pressing his lips more firmly against hers; he knew she needed this. She responded with an almost desperate sorrow. He pulled her close until there wasn't an inch of space left separating them, yet his movements remained characteristically controlled. He wasn't one to take advantage of others, and it was this continued concern for everyone but himself that finally snapped Portia back to reality.

She pulled away, teeth clenched and eyes briefly closed. He was the one in potential danger – he should be worried for his own well-being.

The young stylist finally brushed her hand through Cinna's short brown hair. "Don't you know how much you mean? To so many people." She finally murmured. "Please." The whispered word came heart-wrenchingly quiet. She heard his answer before he voiced it.

"I need to do this, Portia. For you, and Katniss, and future generations who need a better world to live in."

There, slipped in subtly, was his pro-rebellion admission. In a way she had already known. And somehow, she was voluntarily treading the same thin line.

For the first time, the full impact of what that meant hit her like a ton of bricks. It meant putting your life on the line, and dangling your heart out in the open for anyone to come along and shatter.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

Portia was never aware of falling asleep, but she woke in Cinna's arms before the artificial morning birds had begun to trill. Her eyes grazed his face, beautiful and innocent in the peace of sleep.

She carefully extracted herself and stumbled out onto the balcony, welcoming the regulated cool air. Her foot kicked over a leather-bound square and she cautiously bent to retrieve Cinna's sketchbook. Portia flipped through the pages again, coming across a section she hadn't seen the night before. More Mockingjay designs, but this time they were of a high-powered suit. Scribbled at the tail of one page was a short message: "_I'm still betting on you."_

There was movement behind her and she turned to see Cinna, watching her uncertainly as if he expected another emotional breakdown. She forced a less-than-reassuring smile and offered the book for him to take. Eyeing it for a moment, her partner took it from her grasp and tossed it onto a chair before opening out his arms.

Portia fell gratefully into his embrace and the silence barrier between them broke. "You've been holding out on me." To her relief, she pulled off the accusing tone without breaking.

"Considering the utter enthusiasm you seemed to have for my idea, I admit I probably should have told you sooner." She pulled back just enough to glance up. His gaze held an affectionate tease. "Quite honestly, I thought you were about to take a swing at me." He glanced meaningfully at the battered book and Portia grimaced at the mental image. She wasn't sure all too sure that it wouldn't have been past her last night.

He failed to hide a small smile at the flush on her cheeks, blooming beneath a splattering of sun freckles.

Portia's blush darkened at his suppressed expression and she abruptly propped the sketchbook up. "These designs, Cinna." She said, indicating the ones she had just discovered. "They're meant for Katniss to see later on, aren't they?" He nodded affirmation. The young woman fingered the heavy white pages. "I'd like to leave her a note. Maybe from the both of us." She pulled out a scrap of loose-leaf from her pocket.

Her partner offered a quick smile and moved forward, providing a pen. With his help, they settled on a brief message. Portia tucked it into the book with care.

Two hands suddenly enveloped hers and she found Cinna staring at her with regret. "I am sorry about one thing, Portia." He murmured earnestly. "I broke my promise." She watched him, puzzled. "The day we met." He shook his head and exhaled in a soft sigh. "I promised never to hurt you." She dropped her gaze, unsure of how to respond.

Cinna tapped his fingers under her chin. "Head high, Portia. It could all work out. Nothing's ever set in stone."

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**A/N:** And that's the end of _**Part One**_. As always, I'm ever grateful for reviews. & I'm not a huge fan of saying I won't put up a new chapter 'till I get so many, but I'm really striving for a total of 10 before Part Two. Up to you guys, though - I'm too attached to this story to stop now (:


	4. Part Two:Chapter 4

**A/N:** Whew, longest yet. And so starts the second half (: This is where I start improvising some of my own story to fill the gaps in Collins's. To all my reviewers - Jeez, I don't think I could ask for any better than you guys ;D Seriously, thanks a bunch; all of your comments mean a lot to me.

Oh yes, & Catching Fire spoilers continue here.

**Disclaimer:** Let's just say that Mockingjay would've turned out a bit different if I owned this series. I do not, however.

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_**Part Two**_

The day came when everything fell apart.

Portia was expecting it, of course – Cinna's dress had created a blaze that certainly wasn't lost on President Snow. She had spent all her time since the Interview torn between fear for her gloriously foolish partner and worry for their two young charges.

All the same, it was only human nature to long for the impossible, holding tight to the tiny flicker of wishful thinking that they might escape unscathed.

Now she pushed locks of blonde hair out of Peeta's pale face, straightening the skin-tight blue suit he had been supplied with. His hands were clenched into fists by his side.

Portia cupped his chin and managed a smile. "Listen to me. You're better off than last year. You know the field, so to speak, and you have at least Katniss by your side from the start. We'll be cheering you on every step of the way."

Peeta took a deep breath and stood tall. When he spoke, it was painfully obvious how hard he was trying to keep his voice steady. "Thank you, Portia, for everything. I…I couldn't have asked for a better stylist."

She kissed his cheek and gave his hand a final squeeze before the boy was sent to stand on the platform – and no matter what she said, they both acknowledged that it could very easily be bringing him up to his demise.

The glass closed him off and he mouthed the words, _Tell Cinna good-bye for me._ Portia waved one hand, showing she had understood. She was just getting around to wondering if she'd have that liberty herself when the door burst open to a flood of white.

She really only remembered pain – excruciating pain that blossomed over her body until every nerve was on fire and her conscious begged for the release of all thought, all feeling.

Then, briefly, she registered the sight of Peeta, pounding against the glass, shouting mutely as he was transported upward, towards the arena. And even more briefly came her last wild question – why her, why now?

The answer was summoned before darkness smothered the weak flame of hope and brought her peace.

_Because Snow doesn't play fair._

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"_Look. There." He raised an arm and pointed to the treetops. Dusk was falling and stars already glowed faintly on the swath of sky. She envied the ease with which he moved across the uncertain terrain, so different from the smooth-paved Capitol streets._

_Studying the copse of oak off-limits behind a metal fence, she spotted a flash of silver-blue, illuminated like a fallen star._

"_What is it?" The young woman pressed forward curiously, straining to see. Beside her, Cinna smiled. "A Mockingjay."_

_And he whistled the pure, clear notes of little Rue's song, surprising her. The bird took up his call by the third repeat; its trilling tones caught and carried on a breeze._

_Cinna insisted she get Katniss to hear the beauty of song from the little birds, but she was content as is. It was the first time she had encountered a Mockingjay; here in nondescript District 12, preparing their victors for the Tour, she listened to the melody taken up by sweet answering voices until it seemed to fill the entire forest._

Scattered memories – delusions; plaguing her muddled mind, trapped in an in-between state of unawareness.

_A warm hand caught hers – the very first time that led to countless repetitions of the same gesture. His glance was quick, furtive, incredible eyes shining bright. "Pray they don't burn to death." He was anxious and excited, matching her feelings. She had laughed breathlessly, watching their two beauties flash onto the big screen, crowned in flaming glory._

The rush flowed faster now. Images flitted past like an old film reel, ignorant of any time sequence.

_She remembered the first time her partner had steered her up to the Training Center roof and they had simply stared, for nearly twenty minutes, at the sparkling city spread out before them. She remembered jokes shared with Peeta, thoughtful exchanges with Katniss, countless design discussions over coffee. She remembered that one late night on the train when she and Cinna had dared each other into a drinking game and wasted dizzy hours helplessly supported by the other._

The memories abruptly changed track, heading into deeper waters.

_Numb fingers spent from clutching the hand of her steady companion while the horrors of the Hunger Games rolled past. Peeta's stab wound was greeted with wide-eyed silence; Clove's near success at murder – with a pounding heart. _

_At Rue's death she had buried her face into Cinna's shoulder; and at the very end, as the berries touched the children's lips, their fingers were white in each other's grasp. But Peeta and Katniss's were announced victorious and her partner had laughed freely for the first time in weeks, spinning her in an embrace._

Slowly now, as if petering out, the last memories seemed to mix together into a confusing jumble.

"_Them two'll make it, all 'ight. So long they can figure out how to plant a smooch." Haymitch's erupting chortles hinted at too much alcohol, a fact Effie realized with a disdainful sniff. The moon whisked by outside the train windows, but it was cozy and bright inside. Eyeing Cinna's twitching lips, she had found it easy to let her troubles lift free that night._

_Now that same smile was quirked as he bowed before her, offering a courteous hand at the President's wedding banquet. "Care for a dance?" She had blushed simply staring at him, dressed in a dashing tuxedo of his own work. _

_And then the blur of happiness was swamped by a more recent memory – watching Katniss's dress morph into the bold statement of rebellion, hearing Caesar call out Cinna's name, seeing her partner rise from her side to accept congratulations for an idea that all but promised his death. Utter helplessness coursed through her veins as she relived the moment that had seemed to last an eternity._

There was no explanation for her final memory; if her conscious hadn't called it to the surface, she may have forgotten it all together. But she was suddenly transported back to a winter day, every sound muted by gently falling flakes.

_Cinna was a few paces behind her, having seemingly paused to relace his boot. She was inspecting an eligible lunch restaurant when a very cold, very wet handful of snow thudded against her neck. __She had spun and found her companion examining the grey sky all too innocently, hands behind his back. A smile broke through her mock annoyance and a snowball whistled his way, landing on target._

_He shook the snow from his hair then, boyish laughter bright in his emerald eyes, reaching out and stealing her heart._

It was this image that burned behind her eyelids as Portia finally struggled into wakefulness, pain and fear greeting her with grim familiarity; and it was for this reason that she at first disbelieved what her own sight was telling her.

Devoid now of innocent cheer, they were instead filled with raw sorrow and hinting at regret. But without a doubt, those same two eyes that had captivated her on endless occasions now gazed out through the steel bars of a metal cage.

And with her awakening, she could once more see the flare of hope kindle to life within lovely green.

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"_I'll be in every beat of your heart when you face the unknown."_

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**A/N:** In all honesty, this was a bit hard for me to write for whatever reason ('mainly the second part). Maybe because it was longer than average, or from just trying to organize a load of memories. Eh, I actually got worn out trying to write this in one sitting xP Even if criticism, I'd be more than happy to hear what'cha think.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** I'd like to say that school was keeping me from writing this, but honestly I was just extremely lazy this week. But here it is (:  
Just as a heads up, there will be two more chapts. after this one

*Contains end of Catching Fire spoilers*

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters; they're on loan

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"…Cinna," she gasped. Portia dragged herself upright and struggled toward those achingly familiar eyes. She staggered in a bout of dizziness, but the pain of her protesting muscles was lost as she reached the thin barrier that separated her from him.

"Hey, honey." He whispered, eyes smoldering at her in the same way they had just weeks before. Right now, it felt like a whole lifetime had passed. He studied her carefully, assessing her state.

"They hurt you." It wasn't a question. His jaw was clenched. "The Peacemakers came right before the Games began. They weren't gentle." she admitted. "I expect the show was more for Peeta than me." Cinna gave a curt nod. "For Katniss as well."

Portia paused, biting her lip. "I don't remember anything else until waking up here." She allowed her own eyes to roam his face, taking in the gash across his forehead and along his cheek, the countless bruises. "But how are you holding up?" she murmured.

His expression cracked and a helpless sort of chuckle escaped. "Oh, honey." He sighed, pressing his hand against the steel mesh. "I'm the one who was asking for this. The possibility that you're here from association with me…" he broke off with a wretched shake of his head.

"They would've taken me anyway." And she could only press her hand up to his, feeling the cold metal rather than warm skin. He was so close, yet so impossibly far away.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

The torturing sessions descended swiftly. Cinna was the first to be hauled in for questioning, clapped in hand-cuffs and escorted by two burly guards. Portia waited for nearly two hours, pacing her cell in endless figure eights, before her partner was returned. Unconscious and beaten so badly she feared he was dead, the young stylist had cried for help. Her call was answered by the red-head Avox girl from the train, who slipped into his cell while the on-duty guard slept in a drunken stupor.

Portia soon found herself in a similar state, frequently waking to the gentle touch of the Avox as she wrapped fresh wounds and dabbed a cold sponge on her forehead. She was sometimes accompanied by another red-headed Avox from the train, the older male.

Cinna was the only thing that kept her sane, anchored. He was her life preserver in a sea of agony, and she, his. They often lay side by side as close as the steel wall would allow, one hand resting lightly against it.

"They certainly have a broad imagination." Portia commented once weeks after their capture. She shivered at the memory of past lashings, electric shocks, threats. A long burn weal was etched along her arm, an injury from earlier that morning. Her partner offered a small smile, reaching out to her in vain. His fingers grazed the metal and he sighed. "It'll have to end sometime."

Portia traced a design pattern along the floor, fully aware that there was a high chance of things ending badly. She forced her mind to focus instead on a trite question that had nagged at her far before any of this began.

"Cinna?" The young man caught her eye, a curious amusement reflected in his own. She had taken up the habit of beginning every question this way, as if by saying his name she assured herself that he was still there.

"Portia?" She ignored his gentle teasing and fixed him with a probing look.

"I…" She took a breath and began again. "I always knew you were different, Cinna, from the first day I met you." She said softly. He waited patiently, gaze expectant, and she phrased her question carefully. "You aren't a true Capitol citizen, are you?"

It took a long time for him to reply, which was an answer in itself. But eventually he opened up to her– haltingly at first, then more quickly; it was as if every word that dropped from his lips was a released burden.

He told her about his home in District Thirteen, how he was one of the last spies sent to infiltrate the Capitol before the coming rebellion. How they had blindly selected the yet-to-be-announced District Twelve tributes to be the face of the war, simply because the smallest district would need the most reason to fight. And in a quiet murmur, he hinted at the upcoming escape attempt from the 75th Hunger Games.

"I took an oath to guard these plans with my life. You have no idea how difficult it became to keep them from you." Something in his voice seemed to ask for forgiveness even as he gazed at her with pained affection. "Despite better judgment, I found myself trusting you." He said simply.

Portia had remained silent throughout the entire telling. It was shocking to hear, but the young woman had begun to suspect. Now she gave a small reassuring smile, wiping away his doubts. The existence of District 13 was far more surprising than Cinna's hand in recent uprisings – his story just served to more clearly define the valiant role she found herself fitting him into more and more.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

She felt the hard slap of stone as her cheek slammed against the cell floor. The door clanged shut behind her, followed by the echoing thud of retreating footsteps. She wished longingly for the sweet bliss of unconscious darkness.

Her prickling skin was on fire after a round with a new torture technique, which had included batches of thorns. Trickles of blood seeped from a myriad of puncture wounds but she was loathe to open her eyes. It was not yet the alcoholic guard's shift – she'd have to wait for treatment.

"Portia?" The young stylist heard his quiet yet urgent concern and made an effort to lift her eyelids. "Cinna?" she answered weakly.

He achieved a strained smile. She sensed him hesitate, debating over what to say. By now, they both knew it was useless to ask each other if they were all right – they hadn't been "all right" in a long time.

"Next shift, honey. She'll be coming then." He finally whispered, referring to the Avox girl. Portia just groaned, balling her hands into fists.

She sensed him reposition his weight towards the wall and raised her eyes to Cinna's face – for once an open book, filled with anguish. He pressed against the steel, one hand clenched around a bar and knuckles white. Frustration and regret splayed across his expression. "I'm so sorry." The words came in a shuddering sigh and she was startled to hear his voice on the verge of breaking. "For every-"

"Cinna." She cut him off and even managed a glare. And though it wasn't a question, he answered automatically. "Portia?"

Her eyes slid closed in exhaustion and she spoke in a muted mumble, but the pure, sincere sentiment shone through.

"Love you."

The cell was quiet for a heartbeat. Then his whispered words reached her ears, soothing her mind and body far better than any medicine.

"Love you more."

* * *

"_I'm not gonna promise the cold winds won't blow. So when hard times have found you, wrap my love around you."_

* * *

Hours later, Portia woke to the consistent sound of her name. She blinked groggily and Cinna's face swam into view, sharp and alert. "Portia!" he urged. "It's Peeta. He's here."

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**A/N:** Reviews are honestly what keep me going. As always, feel free to leave your opinion~


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I know it's been a while since I updated . So sorry!  
I said there'd only be two more chapters, but this one got so long that I split it into two, which means the next chapt. is pretty much written 'cept for one section that needs some work. Anyway, it should be up fairly quick (:

**Disclaimer:** ...You can probably guess

* * *

"Peeta?" The name propelled Portia off the mattress and towards the cell door, eyes seeking the tell-tale blonde hair. Part of her wished fervently for Cinna to be mistaken, for Peeta to be out of the Capitol's grasp; yet if he was here, it meant he wasn't dead.

A group of Peacemakers surged into view and she could just discern the tattered clothes of three tributes within their grasp. One woman whom she barely recognized strutted down the dingy hallway of her own free will, followed by a second – Johanna, she realized – who had to be subdued by three men.

And then there he was, struggling fiercely against two. His name escaped her lips unthinkingly, and panicked blue eyes fell upon her face. He gave a shout and managed to wrench free, scrambling over to the metal cages. His guards followed with almost lazy expressions, unsheathing the clubs at their hip.

"Portia, Cinna!" Peeta breathed. The boy began to speak quickly, stumbling over words in his haste. "Katniss – I think she's alive. She's not with the Capitol; the rebels rescued her and Odair. Beetee was brought up with them too, but he was in bad shape."

Cinna shook his head, looking caught between relief and grievance. "They were supposed to rescue you as well." he said quietly. Peeta managed a hollow laugh. "I guess I wasn't top priority."

The Peacemakers were just about on him then. Portia seized the last opportunity to speak, realizing the huge possibility that they may never talk to the boy again. "They'll try to break you Peeta, but you must stay strong. Remember that Katniss is still out there and that she'll do anything to get you back."

His raw gaze met hers; it was a moment she kept close to her heart from then on. That split second conveyed the essence of his spirit, and it was the last time she would ever again see it shining from his sapphire eyes.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

More time passed.

It seemed to blur into one great mess of pain and brief relief. Quiet conversations with Cinna broke through the haze like pinpricks of light. They saw Peeta every once in a while, but he was being kept with the other tributes under tight security.

The first few times he was paraded past, seemingly after interviews with Snow, the boy tried to call out. He was swiftly muffled, but Portia's worries were eased by his obvious health.

Increasingly, however, both her and her partner began to notice raggedness about his features. Dark circles beneath his eyes soon stood in stark contrast to his pale face and his hair was often dirty and ruffled. His physical appearance only worsened with each passing view.

There was nothing she could do about it, of course, and Cinna was equally helpless. They tried calling out encouragement at first, but they were punished for their efforts and Peeta eventually stopped responding to the sound of their voices.

And so they could only struggle to remain hopeful, thinking longingly of the day when they might be free of this hell-hole. At random times throughout the days, Portia would quietly voice her love for Cinna again, the desire to be able to merely touch his face burning with a hopeless sense. His response was always the same.

"Love you more."

He was never the first to speak, saving the heartfelt confession of greater love to be received only by her.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

Spending so much time with the Avoxes, Portia was eventually able to communicate with the two. Through passable writing on the dusty floor, she learned to call the girl Lavinia and the man Darius. In an attempt to pay back the kindness they showed her and her partner, she would sometimes split her meager food supply, contributed to by Cinna.

Lavinia slipped into her cell one day, long after the young stylist had given up marking the time. Portia immediately read the tense look of guilt written across her face and grasped her hand searchingly.

With a slight clinking sound, the Avox girl withdrew a set of keys from within the folds of her clothes.

Portia felt her heart leap. For just a second, she envisioned every single one of them escaping, of joining the rebellion – of being able to hold onto Cinna and never let go.

But no, that wasn't why the girl had brought the keys. Their drunken guard sat passed out on his desk, which hinted at how Lavinia had been able to steal the metal ring. There was thick security up the stairwell, however, which meant they couldn't leave the room.

On the other side of the steel wall, Cinna had risen at the same time as his companion. Lifting her face up to his enlivening expression, realization dawned.

Under current circumstances, Lavinia was providing the one gift that was truly priceless.

.:.-.:.

With a furtive glance around the nearly deserted room, Livinia pulled the stylist out of her cell and carefully closed the door in their wake. She turned around and selected a key with trembling hands, inserting it smoothly in the lock to Cinna's cage and twisting until there was a sharp click.

The Avox girl then held up one finger, indicating they had an hour before the next guard arrived. Without further delay, she tugged and the door swung open on silent hinges.

The distance between her and Cinna was virtually nonexistent; Portia wasn't at all conscious of traveling the few feet into his cell.

And then he was holding her fast, pale skin flush against his darker tone. The warmth and the touch she had craved for endless weeks were suddenly there, wrapped around her in an embrace. Cinna's arms encircled her waist and lifted her to his chest.

"Portia." His whispered sigh was thick with emotion. She muffled a sob against his neck, cursing the weakness that made her break down every time he was this close, this intimate. His face nuzzled against hers and he suddenly tilted her chin up, catching her by surprise with a searing kiss; this time, there was no hesitation or falter in his resolution.

"Cinna?" She gasped, responding to their usual game in a way that made him flash a heartbreaking smile. He rested his forehead against hers, hand reaching up to stroke away the tears. "Please don't cry, Portia." His tone was murmured, emerald gaze beseeching her.

She mimicked his gesture, fingertips brushing down his cheek and resting on his collarbone. Tears still flowed silently, shining bright on her lashes. She raised her lips to his, and the kiss harbored everything she loved about Cinna – it was warm and gentle yet glowing with an underlying passion.

Weeks of torture had taken their toll on the two; Portia's mind was swimming and her knees weak, though both probably had something to do with her reaction to the man before her. Cinna maneuvered his partner carefully onto the thin mattress and took his place beside her, once again pulling her into his arms.

She basked in the swell of joy that flooded her senses, letting it wash away the knowledge that it would eventually come to an abrupt end. For now, she was clinging to the moment.

"The thought that I'd never be able to hold you like this tore me apart every day." Cinna spoke quietly, lips against her ear. "It tormented me far more than any torture device they could come up with." He twined his fingers through hers and she squeezed his hand tenderly.

"And now, I don't think I can let you go." he sighed.


	7. Chapter 7 : Revised

**A/N: **This is the **_revised_** chapter 7, because I really wasn't happy with the last version. Mostly only the second half is changed around; not sure if it's fantastic, but I'm happier with this than the last. Anyway, tell me what you think~

The epilogue is still under way; added a section to it last night. Not going to make any estimates this time, though :P  
As always, reviews & such are much appreciated.

In an overly belated reply to **_bella-sk8er,_** the unidentified tribute in the last chapter was intended to be Enobaria, but Annie did cross my mind a couple times ;)

**Disclaimer: **De ja vu, yes? Excellent, no repitition needed

* * *

_All good things come to an end_. A truth that isn't told slant.

The door at the top of the stairwell rattled open nearly three-quarters of an hour later, the echo accompanied with the pounding of many footsteps and then sharp, angry shouts of men.

The two hadn't moved from their position on the mattress, having expected more time within each other's grasp. Cinna's lips froze at her neck, and before Portia could even register the danger he was pressing her against the wall, shielding her body beneath his own. A tattered blanket settled over them both.

It was the universe's greatest irony, to seize a wish and mock it for the world to see. To offer a platform to stand on, elevated above the suffering below, and then yank it out from under.

As the group thundered down the steps, not yet in sight, Portia peered out from under Cinna's arm and spotted Lavinia slip into her empty cell, sliding under the blankets to feign as the young stylist.

A dozen Peacemakers erupted from the stairwell, tugging something along in their midst. The drunken guard woke with a jerk, sloshing an amber liquid onto the floor as he sprang into a sloppy salute. Portia squinted, struggling to make out the slight shape that seemed to be the center of the disarray, and her breath suddenly caught.

_Where is the mercy?_

It was Peeta, appearing like a spectral echo. He was barely a skeleton now, skin hanging off bone and blonde hair ashen, a huge gash on his head that was bleeding freely. His eyes held a wild, crazed look that constantly darted about the room.

The group plowed on as quickly as they came, through the door and down the high security wing. But there was no time for breath, for thought, for any sense of what to say. The sharp click of boot heels sounded in the wake of the clamoring procession.

Two men moved into view through the mesh of barred walls, approaching the muddled sentry. Portia felt a cold fist close on her heart, recognizing the second of the pair – President Snow, an ominous presence far exceeding that of the dreary prison. His face held a sickly pallor, pale except for the blood-red spot of lips. She swallowed back panic as Cinna's grip on her tightened.

His companion, an ornate bronze badge gleaming on his chest, raised his voice to speak to the younger guard. "There have been…recent complications. The boy," at this, he jerked his thumb in the direction Peeta had gone, "has hinted at our bomb attack. Live, on television, to District 13."

The drunken sentry struggled to work through this. "That'sa right horrible, that is," he mumbled after a cessation of hard thought. "So what'll…what'll happ'n t' the boy?"

President Snow spoke. His voice, deceivingly quiet, wove through the air and fell upon any listener's ears with an icy touch. "He needs to be taught a lesson." He replied softly. "He will be tortured, of course." Snow's gaze flicked to the cells and for one horrible instant Portia was sure he was staring directly at her, eyes as bleak and cold as Death. Then his attention returned to the guard.

"And both his stylist and prep team will be killed."

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

Portia was aware, at first, of only Cinna's stiffened body, pressed close as if he felt that he alone could defend her from the Capitol's cruelty. Her presence of mind seemed to have fled, attention tuned in solely on Snow's final words and her partner's underlying radiation of bitter regret.

"All security officers and Peacemakers are required to attend the execution to subdue the crowd, save those stationed in high security and yourself. You'll need to keep watch over the male stylist." He said dismissively. "There'll be guards around in half an hour to collect the female. Until then, we need your assistance." And all three men were gone.

The pause that followed stretched beyond the reaches of eternity. The floor seemed to have dropped out from beneath them, creating a void that was filled with an awful sense of helpless desperation.

Cinna was murmuring in her ear, whispering empty assurances and words of strained conviction that fell hopelessly short, failing to penetrate. And then she was in his lap, arms wrapped around her slender frame.

"Don't worry, honey. You'll be all right. We'll get out of this." His voice broke through and she found it idiotic how his presence could soothe her, even when it was so painfully obvious that there was nothing he could do. She clung to him, her life-preserver, as her heart still refused what she had heard even as her head was persistent with the truth.

She was going to die.

Her fingertips brushed across his lips and he was silent, brow furrowed and jaw clenched with raw, unyielding grief. Her hand trailed down his neck and her eyes followed almost wonderingly – detached from the smothering world. "Cinna." She whispered.

His face was suddenly buried to her own neck, a kiss lingering on pale skin as he held her tight, and his weight pressed gently against her shivering form. "Portia." he murmured; and she was awed by the man before her, the man from District Thirteen who could speak through colors and fabrics but was so frustratingly restrained otherwise – yet who had opened up to _her_, of all people, and gave her something priceless;

Him. And as corny as it sounded, his heart. It was an irreversible and equal trade-off. The young stylist gingerly traced a recently healed scar slashed across his jaw line, and his eyes slid half-closed to her touch. She rested her head against the colorless floor, looking up at him, and her auburn hair spread like a frightening patch of blood against the stone.

The world couldn't afford to relinquish Cinna's spirit, his warmth that could thaw a cold and apathetic nation. And as an idea slowly kindled within her mind's eye, she knew also that it would fall upon her to convince him into a final act that would save his life.

There was no way out; not for her. But as long as Cinna was alive, a part of her always would be.

"Cinna." She spoke his name quietly once more, savoring it. His eyes opened fully, wide and green and uncertain. She caught his face tenderly between her hands and he bent his head until his forehead touched hers, fingers grasping her wrist.

"Listen; there isn't much time." Her voice took on an urgency that made him grow rapt with attention, albeit warily. "All guards will be going to this…assembly." She stumbled over the word, unwilling to admit to her own execution. "Only the drunk will be here, dozing in all likelihood, and Lavinia has the keys." She pressed.

A frown creased his expression as he followed her train of thought, struggling to discern the end to it. "The guards won't be gone until you've been taken, Portia." He objected, and then caught her swift, curt nod.

"_No_." he snapped out, low and angry yet fiercely controlled. She opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off, lips burning against her mouth and hands warm against the exposed skin at her waist. She nearly succumbed to him them, nearly implored him to risk everything in an escape attempt together; but that would only warrant both their deaths, and she shoved the selfish thought away.

Portia dropped her lips to his collarbone and he buried one hand in her hair, pulling her close and kissing eyelids that suddenly seemed to be traitorously moist.

"Don't be stupid, Cinna," she managed to plead. "They're coming to take me no matter what, and there's no possible way to get past security before that. Do you plan to just sit around once I'm gone?" The young woman raised her chin defiantly. "Lavinia can take you with the keys and run. She knows her way around this place, and can get you both out." She confirmed this with a swift glance towards the Avox girl, who was standing silently outside the cell – pale and fragile yet full of empathetic sympathy.

"Peeta and the others will be too heavily guarded to free. We can only hope that District Thirteen will plan a rescue attempt." she finished in a murmur, finding her voice suddenly weak.

Cinna matched her tone, words whispered close to her ear in a sigh that spoke of heartache and incomprehensible anguish. "I can't lose you, Portia."

The young stylist allowed herself an instant to let her hatred towards the Capitol flood through her entire being; an instant of weakness in which she felt like breaking down and crying to the heavens all the could have been but never would.

"Please, Cinna…for me. So I can know that I gave up my life for something – someone – worthwhile." She said quietly. Her heart swelled painfully with love for the man before her, even as it felt like it was being shredded into individual pieces.

He swallowed hard, his breath warm against her cheek. "You're suffering because of my actions, Portia. I'm the fool who put innocent people at risk. I'm not worthwh-…"

Then she was silencing him, because she didn't know what else to do; because time was too preciously short for guilt. Her lips moved against his with muted affections until she broke away, head resting wearily against his hand. "I love you, Cinna."

She had said near the same thing before, but somehow the "I" made the sentiment that much more meaningful; as if by naming herself, she was connected to the man before her – wholly and undeniably.

And now life was coming along and ripping apart something that never fully had the chance to start. It wasn't fair. It wouldn't ever be fair. But that's how life worked.

Cinna tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a shaking hand. She tugged his head down just as he pulled her lips up to his, meeting in a sad unity that was slow and tender, as if the moment was delicate and to be handled with care. Memories from happier times passed wordlessly between the two, of snow and flame and laughter; but they were in the middle of a war, when everything was all too fragile.

"'_Don't let me let you go._'" He murmured an old lyric of a rhyme from his boyhood, a hopeless request.

Pressed against him now, she imprinted the feel, the sight of him to mind – Arms that always held the promise of solace, nimble fingers that could draw and weave and _create_, green eyes tinted with gold that were always changing, yet so familiar. And very faintly, she heard the rhythmic beating of his heart – steady and sure.

He was dark, he was beautiful; he was worth saving. Her Cinna – just as she would always be his.

"Don't come after me," was her soft response, touching his cheek.

And then Lavinia was signaling time to go, and Cinna clenched her hands between both of his for a fleeting instant, as if to deny her permission to leave. He turned one upward, bringing her palm to his lips, and her fingers closed over the kiss as if to hold it there eternally. She extracted herself gently and his eyes followed her, an impossible, unspoken plea for her to remain by his side resonating from their depths – even as the rest of his face pulled blank, struggling to conceal all pain…all feeling.

"You'll have to live for the both of us." The young stylist managed a strained smile, even as a glittering tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away before it had etched a trail, refusing to give Snow that satisfaction. "Don't ever regret this, Cinna."

Reality seemed tangible and precariously easy to break as she reentered her own cell, time shifting around her in uncontrollable spurts. Yet barely a minute had passed when the guards came, pulling her roughly from the cage. She felt Cinna's gaze trained on her the whole while, pooling with deep sorrow.

Portia had once thought that war and love meant putting your heart out for anyone to shatter. And it did – but it also meant having to give up things for those you loved, and sometimes that meant shattering your own heart to make the ultimate sacrifice.

But it was worth it.

As she was hauled away, Cinna's final words reached her ears like a warm summer breeze before the chill of autumn, wrapping her in bittersweet comfort.

"I love you, Portia. That won't ever change."

She smiled sadly then, a smile that held all the lost promise of more love than could ever be put to words.

"Love you more."

He touched three trembling fingers on his left hand to his lips, then, before holding them out to her.

And for the first and last time in her life, she saw a tear streak soundlessly down his face to fall like a bright shard of hope and splatter against the stone floor.

_Forever broken._

.:.

* * *

_May the angels protect you,  
And heaven accept you when it's time to go home_

* * *

.


	8. Epilogue

**A/N: **Well, this is it. The final chapter (and though I felt I might have rambled a bit in some places, there are parts of this chapt. that I'm rather proud of; also changed up the tense). I should say my good-byes now, since adding anything on to the end screws up my format . Anyway...

Most important, thank you a million and one times to all who have reviewed. I love every single one of you. Seriously. This was my first fanfic in nearly 2 years, first one on my newest and hopefully permanent account, and my first ever completed chapter story (No doubt I was a bit rusty ;P)  
I have a couple other ideas spinning around; I might write some one-shots of _happier_ times between our two favorite stylists, or maybe a look through the eyes of several characters...

Oh, and I updated chapter 7, mainly a revised version of the second half.

So, on with the story! As a side note, the quotes I've been using at the end of the chapters are from the song _Never Alone _by Lady Antebellum (sad song, very sweet). There's also a refrence to a certain Mayer song near the beginning of this particular chapter as well.

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games and its characters belong to Suzanne Collins

* * *

He strides down the wide hallway of District 13 with single-minded purpose, pushing through crowds of people and ignoring irritated glances and cross mutterings. There's a certain set to him that stops anyone from voicing a challenge – he has the air of a man who lives solely on desperate hope.

A steel door looms before him and he grasps the forearm of the man standing guard. "I'm permitted entrance," he says shortly, flashing an identification card that the burly sentry barely acknowledges. He's standing on edge like a high-strung wire ready to snap, and the guard passes him over with an uncertain eye before jerking the handle down and out.

The man enters a small square room, furnished with only a single long counter and several white stools. It smells overly clean and purified, and there's something bleakly systematized about the whole arrangement. But the man's expression is suddenly alive, his gaze trained towards the room's center.

She's standing there, back facing him, bright hair unmistakable. Hunched over a sketchpad, she draws in her way of flourished strokes and vigorous erasing. She radiates personality in the oppressing space, achingly-familiar and dearly missed. A muted word falls from his lips, but she doesn't hear.

And then he's walking, nearly running, footsteps oddly silent. His arms wrap around her from behind and he inhales her sweet scent. She gives a start of surprise, spinning in his hold, and her exclamation is given voice. "Cinna!" she gasps.

She's crying then, yet laughing – and he joins her, the only girl who could ever bring tears to his face. "Portia." He breathes, repeating her name once more for good measure. She throws her arms around his neck and brushes her fingers through his hair, face shining up to his with damp cheeks and a breathtaking smile. "Oh, honey," he sighs, holding her crushingly close. "How did they get to you in time?" he whispers, something akin to bewildered and everlasting gratitude evident in his breaking voice.

She opens her mouth to respond at the same time a bell goes off, somewhere in the distance. Cinna glances over his shoulder in an instinctive gesture, vague curiosity pricking at the back of his mind but without much care. He turns back and stiffens in shock.

He is embracing nothing but the air.

_In the tantalizing silence, only unspoken words and empty promises remain._

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

He rolls out of bed and down on his knees, and for a moment it seems he can hardly breathe. His palms are pressed against his eyes, creating sparks of white behind closed lids, and then he's on his feet. The door is jerked open with a rush of night air – beckoning him into the darkness as the stars glitter coldly overhead.

He stumbles blindly for several paces until he falls before a protruding mass of stone. A small box is slipped from his pocket, followed by the slither of wood and a flare of light kindling into existence. A candle at the foot of the pillar catches the flame and eerie shadows dance across the granite, throwing an inscription into sharp relief.

_Here lies Portia Milada  
Victim of the Capitol  
Weaver of Beauty, Light of Hope  
Forever Part of My Heart_

His forehead rests wearily against the cold, bleak stone and he thinks that it doesn't do her memory justice, that it's a cruel joke to substitute her warmth and spirit with a mound of rock. He wishes so desperately that she was there in his arms that his body seems to be burning, even his eyes – then he realizes that it's only tears, barely suppressed.

He has never been good with words. More than anything, he yearns for the chance to go back and confess to her all his feelings, and to tell her everything she meant to him. It's a chance that will never be granted.

The pool of light reaches a patch of churned up dirt resting in front of the grave. Another inscription is scratched there, into the ground, gone over so many times that it seems to be a permanent part of the earth:

_I'm Sorry._

He's tired of this. Tired of waking up from a dream that he wants to be real, of being thrust into raw reality. Of having her wrenched from his grasp again and again. Sometimes he thinks he's going crazy, seeing her appear in his darkened room with crying eyes. He reaches out to her, wondering if she's really there.

But she's not. She never is.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart, waking up is the hardest part.

"I love you, honey." He whispers, and knows it's too late.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

_She told him not to regret it; but he does. He had sworn to channel his emotions only through his work, to prevent from being hurt and from hurting anyone else. But though he regrets forcing his fate upon others, he can't bring himself to regret the love he felt for Katniss, for Peeta…and for Portia, most of all._

_What would the point of fighting have been if there was no one to fight for?_

_He still misses her so much that it aches, somewhere deep inside of him that was touched by her light and now suffers in eternal darkness. The laughter in her eyes, the softness to her touch, the natural beauty caught in every flicker of emotion – all was lost, freed from her body and sent somewhere out of reach. That was something that could never be set right._

_She had been so inherently good in a world that just wasn't._

_Death is final, absolute. It's a release of all concerns. Continuing life; that's the hard part. Sometimes it seems impossible. Sometimes it's enough to bring a person to his knees, surrendering in the face of some higher power that seems to get a sick pleasure out of watching an entire world crumble to pieces._

_He is Cinna. He is a man who had chosen to be an independent Gamemaker in the Capitol's twisted game, who had played with fire and set Panem alight._

_But he had gambled with fate, and he had always known that ran the risk of dealing an unfavorable hand. Sometimes it was worth it. Sometimes losses could be cut._

_Not always._

_He may have won the war, but he had lost something irreplaceable. _

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

_The hovercraft is sleek, beautiful in a dangerous sort of way. Its interior is coated with chromium, gleaming loftily and so very contemporary._

It's been a year and a half since the death of President Coin, which is accepted to be at which point the war ended. A year and seven months, in actuality, but who's counting?

_It flies high above peaceful evergreen copses and dainty meadows, feigning the image of a serene nation that was never torn apart by rebellion – whether it had been two years ago or seventy-seven. For a second, he almost believes it._

He escaped the Capitol. He made it – but he feels no exhilaration, no triumph; just a man's weariness after suffering a weight that should never have been his to bear. He has streaks of grey on his young head to prove it, something he hasn't bothered to hide.

_The hovercraft has a transparent option – an ingenious idea, really, that turns the floor seamlessly clear, as if one were standing on the air itself while surrounded by a metallic dome. It's frighteningly realistic, to the average person; but he is anything but average, and experiences as of late made the description of 'scary' take on a whole different meaning._

Cinna remembers, even as part of his mind struggles to forget, the fateful day that spelled the end of one life and the salvation of another. He thinks that whatever power in charge of these outcomes got it wrong, this time, and wishes she had been saved instead of him.

_He finds it beautiful, personally, watching an endless expanse of green sweep past below, dotted with the silver lace of streams and patches of wild color. _

Her plan had worked flawlessly, something neither he nor Lavinia had expected. _Lavinia_. The name brings an ache all its own, and he wishes to be free from these human feelings that seem to serve no other purpose than to hurt.

_But he prefers to look above, towards the sky, where the blue reminds him of her eyes; they had never been dark or deep like Peeta's, but rather a soft azure as bright as the day._

The Avox girl had brought him to the deserted guards' quarters, from which an accessible trapdoor had led to the tunnels. Yet she had hesitated, torn between escape and some unseen force that he could only assume was her fellow Avox; Darius. He remembers his own bewilderment at the sad farewell in her gaze, remembers her flitting step retracing the path they had come by. He never did see her again.

_He then looks to the horizon, where earth and air seem to merge into a single entity; far into the distance._

And so he had journeyed in the tunnels for nearly three days, keeping to the shadows. Becoming them. He has never slept easy since, agonized by the possibility that just maybe, he could have saved her. He doesn't quite know how he survived those days, and he doesn't quite care. Because she hadn't. _Portia._

_Earth and Air. Ground and Sky. Land and Heavens. Blue and Green, combined._

He had enlisted the help of an old friend from District 13, finding a safe haven among the new colonies being built in the untouched forests. Hardly anyone knew of his continued existence; it was too risky, with Capitol sympathizers running loose in the post-war chaos. But even more than that, he had needed time to himself – to heal, both emotionally and physically. Alone, with only his thoughts.

_The view below is suddenly corrupted with grey. Rubble, ash, a landscape marred by the burnt remains of District 12. He exhales and closes his eyes, and wishes he could close his heart as well._

.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.-.:.

Twin eyes peer out from the window. Even from this distance he sees them widen, and catches a muffled shout. For the first time in a long time, he smiles.

Then she's running from the house, nearly tripping in her haste, and he opens his arms just as she throws herself at him.

He's caught off balance and topples over, sacrificing his own body to catch her fall. He straightens them both and hugs her properly; she has grown some, but her head still seems to fit right beneath his chin, as it always had.

"Hello, my little flame." He whispers.

Katniss stumbles over half-spoken questions interrupted by summoning cries for anyone within earshot. Cinna feels a sudden clap on his shoulder and looks into the face of Peeta Mellark, who just shakes his head mutely with an expression of elated wonder. Haymitch appears, his stupefied manner having nothing to do with a few too many drinks, for once.

Cinna scrutinizes his old companions and finds that, like himself, no one has quite recovered from the horrors of the recent past. Katniss is still gaunt and so pitifully thin, as if she refuses to accept the bounty of resources left to them as reward for a war that shouldn't be praised. Peeta has regained his strength, physically – yet there's the haunted look to his eyes of a man once broken and never put back together quite right. Haymitch is the only one who hasn't changed much, but he had never been well off to begin with.

With a grim twist to his lips, Cinna thinks that they had seen happier times during the reign of the Capitol, and questions almost shamefully, for perhaps the thousandth time since Portia's passing, why selfless acts had been repaid with such grief.

"I am so proud of you." He says to her, voice lowered. "I'm not sure I would have been able to accomplish what you did, and can only wonder how you found the will to keep going."

She leans back in his grasp and her fingers move to a special pocket sown into the lining of her jacket. She carefully pulls out a scrap of paper, folded so many times that it is worn and looks ready to turn to dust. It flutters down into his open hand, settling like a feather.

Cinna finds that he has suddenly forgotten how to breathe, staring at the innocent sheaf as if holding a gift of gold. He recognizes it. He remembers stooping beside Portia, long ago on the day after she discovered his dress designs, providing the pen with which she so delicately wrote the elegant letters that now stared him in the face.

_Fly for us, Mockingjay._

He clutches the scrap like it's the last essence of her being and understands, suddenly, with a burst of such clear realization that it seems to chide him for forgetting the answer he has known since his first conscious decision to defy the Capitol –

No person lives eternally. What really matters is what they leave behind – even at the cost of personal loss, if it means a better future for countless others. It's a cruel truth, but a finite one nonetheless. The goal is not to live forever, but to create something that will.

He will never stop missing Portia; he is only human, after all. But one day he will pass from the world, as will all others who suffered through this period of war. He finds an odd humor, how such strife brought people together who might otherwise have never met, and is conflicted with a strange inkling of gratitude. _It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all_, he thinks, and knows that the most they can do is hold out the hope that maybe one day, their paths will all join again in the end.

He looks to a sky as blue as her eyes once were and wonders if she's watching over them, if she's free somewhere high above the nation that caged them all – if she took the advice she gave, and is finally able to spread her own wings and truly _fly_.

* * *

_My love will follow you, stay with you  
Honey, you're never alone._

* * *

_.:._


End file.
